Bravo's Veil

By Michael Croucher

David Collins is determined to find answers and put to rest a decades old family mystery.
Why did his twelve year old brother leave his billet on a stormy night? Why did he go by himself to a rugged Cornwall beach? And most of all, what part did the billeting authorities and the family he was staying with play in the resulting tragedy?
While David's marriage is crumbling and his business life failing, he sifts through the distortions of time and propaganda to discover and then untangle a carefully crafted cover-up involving MI5 agents.
He enlists the support of a sceptical cousin and the cousin's enthusiastic wife. Together, they peel back layers of family history and uncover some shocking deceptions.A childhood keepsake provides the final clue and confirms the role that a beautiful billeting official played in the disaster.
It also reveals that she was instrumental in safeguarding an extraordinary and very disturbing secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Croucher
• Release date: Oct 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450236645

Michael Croucher

Michael Croucher was on the Metropolitan Toronto Police Department for 18 years, and served on The Combined Forces Special Enforcement Unit investigating organized crime.  An award‐winning writer, Mike writes novels and short stories. He lives with his wife Lynda in a small Ontario town within driving distance of two married daughters and five very active grandchildren. When he’s not writing, Mike reads extensively, follows ice hockey (Maple Leafs), baseball (Blue Jays), and keeps up with world events. Author photograph by Marney Massey Connect With Mike Website: www.michaelcroucherbooks.com Facebook: www.facebook.com/michaelcroucherbooks Twitter: @mikejcroucher

Book preview

Prologue

Cornwall, England, December, 1939

The narrow strip of beach became darker. A heavy bank of clouds pushed in from the sea and the surf rose on the stiffening wind. Swells crashed onto the shoreline, sending spray through the air in sheets that danced over the rocks, and onto the beach. The caves on the cliff face moaned from the winds gusting across their mouths.

A twelve year old boy named Paul stood shivering below the towering crescent of cliffs. He looked through the dim light to the steep path that could take him off the beach, away from the lash of the wind. But he thought of the promise he’d made, and he turned his head away from the path, resolved to completing his search for a place to secure the tiny canister.

His feet were submerged in whirlpools of froth and his socks were caked with cold wet sand. The rest of his clothes were soaked through and clung to his body. He raised his right foot, supported it across his left knee, and pulled down the heel to drain out sea water. Her words came back to him.

You’re not afraid of the dark are you, Paul? Be brave for me, this will be a nice adventure.

Determined to please her, he moved towards the menacing line of rocks, but the sense of bravado he’d felt at the start of his errand was gone. It had been replaced by his fear and desire to leave. He wanted to be back in front of the big fireplace with a steaming mug of cocoa, sorting through his marbles and conkers, with his toes tucked beneath the belly of the Obneys’ dog, Jiggs. He wished Jiggs was with him now. In his young life he had never felt so exposed or so alone.

Tugging up his coat collar to ward off the icy pinpricks nipping at his face and neck, he worked slowly along the scattering of tall rocks towards the waves crashing over them from the point. In the darkness, the rocks loomed around him. His hands were numb and his fingers ached. He stopped for a moment to warm them in his pockets, but the fingers felt as if they would break off as he started running them over the surface of the rocks.

He found a crevice between two rocks, and then glanced over his shoulder to see if the location was visible from the caves above. It was. He pulled the small metal tube out of his pocket. His hands shook as he worked at wedging it into a small cleft branching from the crevice. The container dropped to the ground twice. Both times he searched blindly, but retrieved it before the sea water coursing around the rocks could sweep it away. After several attempts, and a wiping on the inside of his coat, the tube held fast. Satisfied that part of his job had been done, he dabbed his sleeve onto his eyes to reduce the sting of salt.

Paul stared through the darkness at the largest of the three caves, squinting into its black mouth for any sign of the man. Following his instructions, he moved a few feet away from his deposit and stood straight. He waved both arms above his head, and kept watching.

Where is my signal? She said that he would be here, and he would signal.

He knew that she expected him to wait, but the signal didn’t come. What was he to do? Searching for cover, he moved towards a cluster of larger rocks just down the beach. From there, he would still be able to watch the caves.

He moved inside the circle, framed his face with his hands and willed his eyes to see what might be lurking in the shadows. The rocks to his sides and back cut the full force of the wind, but along with the growing darkness, they expanded his fears. The howl from the cave mouths grew louder.

There was a torch in his coat pocket. He gripped it, was tempted to turn it on to put some of his fears to rest, but he didn’t, it had been made very clear to him that the torch must not be brought out until he had been signalled or was off the beach.

Is the man even here? Perhaps he is, and his torch hasn’t worked. Why hasn’t he called down from the cave? Something must have happened.

The winds shifted and inside the circle of rocks it became a little drier, and a little quieter.

Another half an hour, and If I haven’t been signalled by then, I’ll tell her that no one came. But I did what she asked. I did my best.

Leaning back against a rock, he rubbed his arms, and blew onto his hands. He put them deep into his trouser pockets and raised his head to take a deep breath. His lungs filled, and his neck and shoulders began to relax.

There was a swish and a loud grunt. A shadow slashed from the rock and It wrapped around him. He saw the outline of a hand an instant before it clamped down on his face and blocked his mouth and nose. The hand smelled of oil and animal dung. Its owner moved up against him and pushed savagely to get him away from the rocks.

Struggling to breathe through the power of the grip, Paul felt sick to his stomach.

He kicked his feet up from the ground to free himself. But, at half the size of his attacker, he was lifted easily into the momentum of the kick. He was suspended, then dropped to the ground and subdued.

A voice rasped into his ear. Not a sound, boy. Just do as I say.

The man pulled him up the path to a narrow ledge on the cliff face.

His shoes scuffed along the surface of the ledge as he was dragged. Pebbles scattered and rattled down the cliff and into the hungry surf. He glanced down to the sharp rocks shimmering through the darkness.

Don’t let go of me.

The path widened where the cliff face turned. A few yards further along, he was taken deep inside the middle cave. The sound of the wind and the sea gave way to a deep hush. Fearing that the man might cut his throat, or snap his neck like a twig, he tried to stay still, but he shivered again, this time violently. They were in utter darkness.

I want to go home.

Tears flushed down his cheeks and dripped onto his trembling hands. Somewhere close behind him, he sensed the man moving. He heard nothing but the thumping of his own heart and the chattering of his teeth.

A few hours later and eight miles to the west, the first traces of morning light filtered through the filthy windows of an old warehouse in the Penzance rail yards. Arthur Coulter, an officer from MI5 sat at a battered desk. He drummed his fingers impatiently and thought through his plan to control the damage.

The boy’s involvement had ruined the operation. Already, there had been an impact on his unit. Their mission had been compromised, and their prime target had slipped away. Coulter had been ordered to relocate the entire team for debriefing and re-deployment. Although a more detailed reckoning of the situation would come later, his initial response had to be prepared now, before tackling the operational changes.

Damn it, he muttered.

He tried to imagine the set of circumstances that had pulled the boy from his billet and deposited him smack into the middle of everything, right onto that beach. Coulter read the name from a small note he’d pulled from his pocket.

Paul Collins, London, NW9.

He took a box of matches from the desk drawer.

Details, he muttered. I need more than this, give me some bloody details.

The telephone rang. He snatched it up. His voice was clipped and edgy.

"Are you calling from a secure location?’’

The reply from Judith Challis was confident and clear.

I am, the line has been checked.

How well do you know this boy?

Very.

What about his family?

I’ve talked to him a great deal. He’s told me all about them.

Coulter flattened the note, placed it into a chipped ashtray and struck a match. He held the flame to the edges until it caught, and waited until the note was completely burned before he spoke. There will be a huge squawk over this, Judith. Hopefully, I can contain most of it. But by the time you ring off, I’d better know what in Hell you were thinking, and why.

Where do you want me to start? she asked.

He sat back in the chair. First, tell me about this boy. Tell me what you know about his family and about his time in Cornwall. And for Christ’s sake, tell me why you sent him onto that damned beach.

Chapter 1

London, Three Months Earlier.

Paul sat in his bath. He looked through the gap in the curtains towards a trio of search light beams in the distance, thinking through the events of his day.

He heard his Nan’s heavy breathing. It became louder as she struggled up the staircase. Floorboards creaked when she stepped onto the landing and her feet shuffled along the hallway. The door opened a few inches and her face poked through. She nodded, pleased that he was in the bath. Wisps of smoke rose from the cigarette between her lips.

Good lad.

Paul leaned forward, his arms shielding his privates.

Can I come in for a minute, love?

Nan moved into the room and pulled her spectacles from the pouch in her pinafore. She put them on, and raised his chin with a finger that reeked of nicotine. She inspected his face.

Ruddy hell.

Shaking her head, she stood back from the tub.

What a damn mess. Are you going to tell me who did that to you?

He looked down to the water.

Her face softened.

It’s all right, Paul. I’m not angry at you, but I really should know what happened.

Silently, he pushed the floating sponge around the tub.

Nan pointed to the grime and black dust that was caked on his arms and neck.

Look at you. You’re blacker than a damned coal man. Put that soap to work like you mean it, ducks.

He grinned and soaped up the sponge. Nan moved to the door, turned back towards him, exhaled through her nostrils, and took another drag without removing the cigarette from her mouth. She smiled through the smoke.

I was right though, wasn’t I? A nice bath always makes you feel better. You keep listening to your old Nan, and everything’s going to be just fine. Scrub up really well, and I’ll see you before your bedtime, perhaps you’ll tell me about it then.

She pulled the bathroom door shut, lingered outside for a moment to make sure he stayed in the tub, and then moved back along the hallway.

Paul listened to her work her way down the stairs. She would be moving slowly, making sure that both feet were on each stair before she took the next step, and hanging onto the banister while touching the wall with her other hand. She wouldn't be coming back up until his bedtime. He stood, picked up a stringy towel that was draped over a stool, wrapped it around his waist, and stepped from the bath.

At the sink, he reached up and rubbed away the mist on the worn mirror. He leaned forward and gently pulled his lower lip out and down. The tooth had come nearly all the way through. A crusty black and scarlet patch of blood was caked along the inside of his lip. It was especially thick below the wound. A bruise ran along the edge of his jaw line from his chin, his face ached, and his forehead throbbed. When he opened his mouth he felt a sharp pain all the way back to his ear. The taste of blood still lingered and he smelled sourness on his breath. He turned on the tap, spat out a stringy trail of saliva that was tinged with blood, and watched it circle and slide into the drain.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

Paul turned off the tap and wiped his mouth on the corner of the towel.

Leaving the bath full, he climbed into his pyjamas and cardigan, opened the bathroom door and stepped out. He edged along the hall to the top of the stairs. From where he stopped, he could hear clearly. His Nan arrived at the front door.

Hello, Bett, come in, love, come in.

He moved back along the hallway, but stayed close to the stairs so that he could keep listening and watching through the railings. He put his back flat against the wall, slid down it, and sat on the floor. Nan and Bett would talk through at least two cups of tea.

Gwen Collins took a shopping bag from her guest and placed it by the windows in the front room. She hung her coat and scarf on the end of the banister.

Nice to see you, love.

Bett’s eyes followed the bag.

I’ve got your black out curtains ready, the downstairs ones anyway.

Ta, that’s lovely.

We’ll hang them right in front of the others and you’ll be all set. This house will be as tight as a camera box, you’ll see. You can’t see a pinprick of light through mine. Have you noticed?

I did, love, very nice job.

Bett examined the existing curtains, and looked up towards the rods.

I’ll have the upstairs ones ready for you by Monday, Gwen...By the way, have you made any decisions? You know...have you thought about evacuating the boys."

At the top of the stairs, Paul moved onto the stairwell. He sat again, careful not to make any noise, and kept his feet back from the turn in the stairs, well out of sight. He leaned forward, and cupped his hands to his ears, eager to capture every word.

Gwen tightened the string on her pinafore.

I’ll register Paul next week. I was going to do it sooner, but I’ve been dawdling, I still don’t know what to do about David. They want to keep him down there.

She moved towards the kitchen.

Would you like a cup of tea?

Lovely, yes please. But why do they want to keep David down there?

Gwen sighed

Well, they give me all kinds of reasons… but as far as I'm bloody concerned, if those boys have to be sent away, they should be together. Brothers should be together at that age, shouldn’t they?

The kettle on, Gwen went back to the front room and picked up the shopping bag, and started to pull out panels of the blackout curtains.

Of course they should, said Bett.

They don’t see each other very much. And now, the grandfather, old man Stanfield, has found another excuse. He says with all the evacuation talk, David would be better off staying down there.

But, Alverstoke’s part of Gosport, isn’t it?

Yeah, I suppose it is.

Well it’s just as likely to be bombed as London, probably more so with the Navy yards and the docks so close. So, how would David be better off there?

They’re getting a place on the Isle of Wight. Mrs. Stanfield and the other daughter are taking the children over while the old man looks after the shop.

Couldn’t Paul go too?

They don’t want him down there, but they want David. Even if they would take Paul, I don’t think there’s time.

It’s hard to believe they don’t want their own grandson, it just seems such a bloody shame, Gwen. But I’m sure that it will all get sorted out in good time.

Do you really think so, Bett? Well, I ruddy don't. When my Eric did himself in after Penny died, things changed a lot between our families. I’m not so sure it will ever get sorted out.

That's a pity, love. And how do you think he’ll be about going away?

Oh he’ll be all right about that. You know our Paul, things like that are a big lark to lads like him. He won’t want to miss out if any of his friends are going.

Her brow furrowed.

Bett put down her tea cup and climbed onto a chair to reach the curtain rods.

You’re all set then, done everything you could, there’s just the telling to be done. He’ll be fine, you’ll see. Cheers, love.

Yes, I suppose he’ll be all right about the evacuation, but not about his brother. He’ll be upset when I tell him David’s not going. God, I’m not looking forward to telling him that.

Hopefully, it won’t be for all that long.

Gwen’s voice broke.

I’m not so sure, love. I have a strange feeling those boys might not see each other for a very long time.

Paul stood up on the stairs, and returned to the top. He ignored the full tub and went directly to his room. He closed the door quietly and dropped onto his bed. Across the dark room, on top of his dresser, there was a small framed picture of his brother. It was bracketed by photographs of his mother and his father.

It was almost nine, and dark outside, but enough ambient sky light leaked through the curtains to brighten the top of the dresser and the photographs. He gazed at the picture of David, and kept looking towards the shadow of its frame until long after the light had faded and the image had gone.

His eyelids become heavy and he eventually fell asleep. But the sleep was ragged. it was filled with dreams of his brother, and of the evacuation, and with long wakeful periods, thinking about the last thing he’d heard his Nan say to Bett Helmer.

Chapter 2

Paddington Station teemed with youngsters. The concourse and platform areas were dotted with the officials and volunteers who were charged with supervising the transportation of school children to the evacuation centres west of London.

Paul was queued up with over sixty other pupils from his school. His gas mask box was slung over his shoulder. He was near the front of the queue, clutching his small suitcase in front of his body with both hands. He gazed towards the great barrel shaped canopies above the platforms, and at the massive arches that supported them. Dozens of pigeons swooped and fluttered from their perches in the grimy girders. He listened to the thumping of their wings through the hisses of steam and the clutter of other station noises. Then, he tried to count the birds, but lost count due to the numbers that descended onto other platforms, only to be blocked from his view by trains and carriages.

His Nan hadn’t quite got to him, but Bett Helmer had. She stood with one hand on his shoulder, as if trying to pin him to the spot, and waved her scarf over the heads of others so that her friend would have a reference point as she struggled through the throng.

The children’s queue was the most orderly feature of the crowd that was forming quickly behind a green wooden fence that separated the concourse from the platforms. The children stood in a separate line, two abreast. Those nearest the front were standing directly in front of the gate into the platform area.

Paul’s Nan arrived.

Look, there’s someone coming to the gate, she panted.

Two uniformed railway officials walked along the other side of the green fence and stopped at the entrance to the platform. They opened the gate and called for the column of pupils, the supervising teachers, and other officials to start coming through. The loved ones stayed behind the green fence.

On the platform, the children were split into groups, then shepherded along the train’s length and planted in front of the carriage doors. Mr. Dudley, a teacher from Paul’s school appeared from another platform area. He raised a megaphone and directed his voice towards the fence.

Could I have your attention please?

The level of chatter in the crowd dropped.

As you are no doubt aware, we are at a different platform than the one that was originally scheduled for us.

A disgruntled and acknowledging murmur arose from his